


Turn the Memory to Stone (MICHAEL CLIFFORD)

by RockWithItWriting



Category: 5 Seconds of Summer, 5SOS, five seconds of summer, michael clifford - Fandom
Genre: 5 Seconds of Summer - Freeform, 5SOS - Freeform, Michael Clifford - Freeform, Other, five seconds of summer - Freeform, reader - Freeform, you - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-11
Updated: 2016-07-11
Packaged: 2018-07-23 01:27:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7461195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RockWithItWriting/pseuds/RockWithItWriting
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>requested by anonymous: Hello! Would you mind writing a Michael Clifford thing with a Plus sized y/n, Eli?</p><p>word count: 799</p><p>warnings: mentions of self hatred, fatphobia, ect.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Turn the Memory to Stone (MICHAEL CLIFFORD)

Your apartment was dark, loose articles of clothing shrouding your form. Your mirrors, though sparse, were all covered with black pillowcases.

That is why you didn’t let anyone come over.

But you weren’t going to be able to avoid it once tour started. Michael, your best friend, was going to help you back because he knew better what you needed than you did, from experience, and how were you going to explain that you had one mirror in your house that didn’t have a rim of tape holding a barrier down to it? How were you going to explain the amount of loose clothing you had, or the way your eyes dropped to the floor when you were making tea because your kettle was reflective? You couldn’t.

Instead you stood from the couch when he knocked and gave him a hug when he grinned at you, letting him into your house. “Nice place,” Michael commented, nodding and smiling at you.

“As nice as being a guitar tech can get me,” You ribbed, nudging your friend with your elbow, “Which, you know, is nicer than what I had before this. But let’s get packing!” He followed you down the narrow hallway and into your room where the first thing you saw was the full length mirror blacked out next to a pile of magazines that told you that you weren’t enough; that you were too much, disproportionate to what you wanted Michael to think you were.

“What’s with the mirror?” Michael asked, gesturing loosely to it when you moved to grab your suitcase and toss it on the bed. You shrugged as it bounced.

“I don’t like to sleep with the mirror in my room. I’m superstitious.”  
  
“There’s a superstition about mirrors and sleeping?” You nodded and Michael picked up one of your shirts- one of his band’s shirts- and smiled before he asked you to go on.

“I can’t remember where I heard it but I guess some cultures believe that if you sleep with your reflection in a mirror that a part of your soul breaks of and becomes trapped. I don’t want that to happen to me.” A half truth because you didn’t want to tell him that you just didn’t want to look at yourself without preparing mentally. “It’s dumb, I guess, but easier to cover it up then take a chance, right?” Michael nodded and began counting off outfits on his fingers.

“I call bullshit,” He said nearly five minutes later, back turned as he rifled through your jeans to find the correct amount, “On the mirror thing. That’s bullshit.” You stuttered in your movements, but kept putting your toiletries in their proper bag, “I know you,” Michael continued, “And you have literally never given a shit about that until this moment in time.” All you could do was shrug. “And I want to know why you decided to cover every single mirror in the house.” You snorted.

“You already know why. You wouldn’t be asking if you didn’t know.” Your tone was matter of fact as you placed the smaller bag of toiletries in your suitcase. Michael scoffed and he stopped packing, instead turning to you. He grasped your arm and looked at you seriously.

“You think you’re ugly.”  
  
“I think I’m fat.”

“You are fat,” And before you could recoil and slap Michael, he held up a hand, “But you are not unhealthy. Fat is a description word. Oh, my God! Look at that fat cat! Do we love the cat any less because we called it fat? No. Do we still cuddle the cat? Yes. Is the cat any less cute because we called it fat? No! I’ve seen some ugly cats in my lifetime, but you are not one of them.” His words tapered off into silence.

“I can’t believe you just called me fat.”

“You just called you fat, too.”  
  
“I’m allowed!” You protested, ripping your arm from Michael’s grasp, “You’re not!” He kept eye contact with you, a silent challenge.

“Why not? I call myself ugly, other people call me ugly. What’s the difference? Either way I’m ugly. You may be bigger than most, hell, I wouldn’t even call you fat! What’s the term they use on Tumblr? Plus-sized?

“Look, all I’m trying to say is you don’t need to cover your mirrors because of what you think you are. I think you’re a fucking angel from heaven- shouldn’t that count for something? Shouldn’t the way I feel count? Nothing matters as long as you’re healthy, okay? I don’t care about anything else because I want you to be happy and I want you to be comfortable in your skin.”

You just nodded.

“We’re going to finish packing and then we’re going to uncover the mirrors in this place.”


End file.
